Enemy Anonymous
by Titanium Dream
Summary: When Voldemort murders her parents, Hermione is forced to stay at Hogwarts over the summer. She is disgruntled to find that Draco too has neglected to leave, but can she learn to live with him? Secrets, conspiracy, time travel and chocolate. Literally.
1. Default Chapter

The story now begins at the beginning of the summer holidays prior to Hermione's seventh year.

ONE

Sat listening to footsteps somewhere outside her dormitory, Hermione glanced about. The walls seemed devoid of their usual character, for ordinarily, every corner of the grand room would have been alive with the countenances of wizarding icons - courtesy of Lavender. Now, abandoned in the holidays, it was emptier than her heart felt.

Living at Hogwarts was all very well when one had friends to talk to, fine when the school hall was filled with friendly faces at meals, great when at night a person could relax in the comfort of good company around a roaring fire, whilst drinking Butterbeer finely selected from the school kitchens. But this was the summer holiday (a largely _cold_ summer holiday, but nevertheless...); the castle was virtually empty, save for the professors. All of the safely liberated students had left for their homes two days ago, and already, she had become a victim of the crushing tide that people called monotony. When Draco Malfoy was the only obvious would-be company around your own age, there was nobody to talk to. He was always in mysterious meetings with the professors; and when looked at rationally, who _would_ want to talk to him in an even _vaguely_ pleasant manner? In her past experiences of him, he had only proved to be an abominable bastard. She remembered exceedingly well the single occasion upon which she was left alone with him - in the hall after saying goodbye to Harry, Ron and Ginny:

"Malfoy?" she had questioned. Why hadn't he left the rest of his house?

"Yes, Granger?" he snarled, casting a foul look in her direction. "I'm staying over for the holidays, too. It's great, don't you think?"

"Can't you see my happy, smiling face?"

"When I found out, I positively _danced_ around the Slytherin common room with my underpants on my head."

"Why didn't you take a picture? You could have sold it to _Witch Weekly_," Hermione said listlessly, rolling her eyes. "I could use a laugh, especially as I've just found out that you'll be staying."

"What, you think that I_ wanted _to stay here?" Malfoy had asked, incredulous.

McGonagall had taken Malfoy by the elbow and dragged him out of the hall, saying, "Mr Malfoy, I beg your pardon, but we've already been through this!"

Before he had left for Hogsmeade station, Ron had given her a kiss on the cheek. Hermione pulled a face at the thought of her brief flirtation with Ron. He had left Hogwarts solidifying the end of his brief infatuation with her. Lasting for a grand total of two dates, there was too much embarrassment, too much press attention, and quite flagrantly too much awkwardness. Once Ron had finally conquered the barrier of the initial first kisses (along with their aftermath), he had been oblivious as to what came next. Hermione hadn't wanted to ruin their friendship with each other and with Harry, although Harry _claimed_ he had been perfectly fine with their dating. In light of it all, they had called the whole thing off - to the disappointment of _Witch Weekly. _They had been going on for so long about Harry and his 'depression.' If his two best friends had left him for each other - how could he not be depressed?

If she were to be honest with herself, Hermione thought that Harry was just about ready to explode with depression. Since he had lost Sirius and placed the blame upon himself, he hadn't been truly happy. When Hermione had lost her parents, he had felt so wretched and responsible that he hadn't gotten out of bed until she had forced him to. After all that he had been through... and now this – yet more heartache for the Boy Who Lived.

Wondering whether Professor Sprout had re-potted her venomous tentacula yet, Hermione moved towards the magnificent windows that revealed to her the conventionally Gryffindor view of the dark lake and forest outside. Was it actually possible that Hogwarts could feel so melancholy? Below, the scene was haunting. It was a turbulent evening, and the forests of trees below were swaying uncontrollably; like some frenetic monster. Tonight, the usually motionless lake was violently responding to the coarse wind; billows of air ripping through vast quantities of water, tossing cascades of the stuff into the air.

Hermione distractedly fingered the familiar leaden bars dividing each separate windowpane. Was this home? She had always found it to be so, until now. Admittedly, the only thing that she wanted at that particular moment in time was to be in her _real_ home, with her parents. They had been gone for a good three months now. The very moment that it was realised that Hermione did not have a home, Mrs Weasley had offered, with a motherly concern, to allow her to take residence at the Burrow; but Dumbledore had been adamant. She was to remain at Hogwarts until all threats to her were overthrown. Harry and Ron had rebelled, of course, but to no effect whatsoever. If Voldemort had killed her parents, as he had killed Harry's, then there was a fair chance that he would want Hermione dead – and she was no Harry. If he found her, there would be no escaping. She inhaled deeply.

Voldemort wanted her dead.

Who on Earth had survived after being targeted by him, except for Harry and Dumbledore? When the truth had been told about her parents' untimely death, she had cried herself to sleep in Harry's arms. After appearing around school until two weeks before the end of term, she had missed a chunk of lessons. Even then, she had been escorted everywhere by her two friends - looking depressively like a female zombie. Never before in her life had she felt so upsettingly powerless.

What she needed was the library... a good book to read. Filch should have been through with cleaning the place by now... the last thing she wanted was company. She hastily turned from the window and began to race out of the dormitory. By the time that she had scrambled out of the portrait hole, wholly out of breath, Hermione realised that she hadn't eaten that day, let alone endeavoured to go outside. Suddenly, she was starving. Pulling her sleeve up, her watch showed her that dinner had passed three hours ago... she hadn't felt one ounce hungry until now. She sniffed, straightening her creased clothing, proceeding towards the library once more.

She didn't know what it was about being surrounded by books, but it comforted her. Perhaps it was their familiarity, perhaps it was their detachment - she didn't care to be frank. She hadn't been caring about trivial matters such as that lately... She hadn't even been caring about her basic human needs, such as food, or water. She hadn't even been bothered to shower or to wash her hair.

Upon entering the library, Hermione felt herself step through a warm mist of air, which was radiating from the fires Filch had evidently lit for her. She strode towards the section of books that was entitled, "Wizarding Autobiographies." Scanning the shelves, she sought a book that she hadn't read before – a dust-ridden volume named _Practical Impishness and its Consequences_ caught her eye. Obscurely, she felt drawn towards the book. What misfortunes had _this _wizard or witch experienced? At that particular moment, she felt that they couldn't be much worse than her own – the title made the book seem to be of an amusing nature. But still, she took it in the hope of finding consolation.

As she pulled the heavy volume off of the shelf, the bookcase surreptitiously creaked. Hermione took the book into her arms in the attentive fashion of a mother carrying a child, sitting down in Madame Pince's convenient armchair. It felt good to be indoors in the warmth when it was cold and raining outside. She rearranged the voluminous cushions that were situated behind her, made a pot of tea appear with a flick of her wand, and when she was substantially snug, she set about to read her book. It was red, leather bound, with a gold-embossed title. As she opened it, something within her stirred. And yet, this book looked like it hadn't been opened for centuries; its fragile pages were browned with age. Ornate colour plates were protected by flimsy tissue paper, the decorative writing twisted and turned, sprawling across the pages.

Hermione jumped convulsively as the door to the library was pushed open. She glanced up and saw a quite obviously aggravated Draco Malfoy.

"Yes, what do you want?" She was secretly relieved that it was him and not Filch, who would have wanted to talk lengthily about school policy, as he had done before.

"Just because I'm in the library, don't just _presume_ that it's for you. Although Dumbledore seems to think so, not everything is about you, Granger."

"But this is, isn't it?" Hermione sighed. She wasn't in the mood for satirical remarks. Especially not if they were spoken by such a self-obsessed Slytherin.

"Hell, yes! I've been searching all over the whole bloody castle for you! And by the way, you need to give me the password to Gryffindor tower - that _stupid_, and quite frankly morbidly obese woman in front of your portrait hole wouldn't let me through," Draco spluttered indignantly.

"Before you start again," Hermione arrested him, "Why _have_ you been searching for me?"

"In McGonagall's exact words: have you by any chance, eaten, in the past few days?" Malfoy asked, a churlish frown about his pale face.

Hermione's stomach answered with an antagonising rumble.

"Evidently, no. Most unfortunately this means that I'll have to lug you to Dumbledore's office."

"Excuse me, but there will be no lugging! And I'll escort myself, thank you very much!" Hermione stood up from her chair wilfully, placing her book on Madam Pince's desk with a ceremonious thud.

"How affectingly Gryffindor..." drawled Malfoy, "But I'm afraid I'll have to come. He wants me, too." The sound of the rain bludgeoning the castle walls was enough to cope with - why did he have to put up with _her_ rubbish? He was finding it hard not to leave without her, locking the door. She was just Potter's little minion, after all.

At least she had friends that had wanted her with them. Crabbe and Goyle had dropped him so that they could run away to Spain together. They had always been rather effeminate - even for all of their muscles.

Whilst hurtling round a series of corridors at the rear of a speed-walking Hermione, Draco reminisced over the past few days. Having been crammed with enough information to fill a person for life, his mind was just about ready to explode - and the professors were expecting him to _remember_ it all?

Draco hadn't been all too thrilled that Hermione was to stay over the summer. Indeed, he had been sorely tempted to complain, but was put off by Snape. Extremely grouchy from lack of food (or so he said), Snape had thrown an entire cauldron-full of swelling solution over Filch's head - just for spilling a jar of crustacean-eyes on the dungeon floors. Apparently, Filch wasn't pleased and Draco didn't blame him; he didn't particularly relish the idea of having swelling solution poured all over his head. And anyway, attending meetings for hours upon end hadn't exactly been his idea of a holiday. If Dumbledore wanted to treat him as an equal, why didn't he just leave him alone to wander aimlessly about Hogsmeade, drinking Firewhiskey from other people's beer glasses? That would have been so much more stimulating than lazing in the headmaster's study, only partially listening to Flitwick squeaking on about his latest designs for "The Plan." There were only so many times that one could mention the name "Lucius Malfoy" before one became nauseated. When he had expressed his opinion to the Order, he had been told to fetch Granger from a place unknown to the human race, apparently so that she could feed:

"But, you said that she wanted to be left alone!"

"Dear boy, please!" Madam Pomfrey had cried, flailing her hands into the air.

And with that, he had departed.

Things had been tough ever since he had turned sixteen. Upon the anniversary of his birth, his Machiavellian father had taken Draco to Lord Voldemort. It was step three of the Malfoy family's unique path to enlightenment - at eleven, go to Hogwarts. At thirteen, study the Dark Arts by nightfall. At sixteen, become a Death Eater. From a small child he had been tutored to believe that learning the Dark Arts was simply the key to control.

He could remember the night formidably well. His father had been secretive for a length of time before, chancing outside of the manor at night whilst his mother was sleeping. When Draco found out that Lucius was gathering elements for the induction potion, he concocted a simple but desperate plan. He would feign loyalty and avoid being branded with the mark. Placed before a witch, he was told to kneel down upon the dusty ground. The clandestine Dark Lord was revealed to him at the ceremony that was supposed to have been his birthday party. Upon a stroke of sheer luck, he had been able to convince Voldemort of his faith in the Dark Arts. How useful he would be spying for him, and how if it was that he were branded with the skull and serpent, Dumbledore would suspect him to be on the Dark side.

Malfoys had always been rather good at lying through their teeth.

The sound of Hermione's voice forcing him out of his reverie, he was dragged into the present.

"What?" he said sourly.

Hermione spun around on her heel, "Why_ haven't _you went back home to that manor of yours? And no caustic observations about my parents, thanks. If you won't tell me, I'll ask the professors, and then I'll find out anyway."

"So you don't care for my scintillating assertions?"

"I think that you already know the answer to that," Hermione replied as civilly as she could, with her fists clenched.

"I think that I do. Have you ever heard of a thing that I like to call piquant vivacity? It's what I have that you don't." Draco stood back a little from the stone gargoyle that guarded the headmaster's study, "hello, old chap," he said, in a cheerful voice, "_Pepper Imps_!"

"_Please, _do try not to change the subject."

Draco elbowed his way past Hermione, feeling arrogant, and jumped onto the moving staircase.

"Always such a gentleman," Hermione remarked. She rubbed the place where he had pushed her. She watched him through narrowed eyes.

"Aren't I just?" Draco ignored her unpleasant glare as she stumbled onto the staircase after him.

Hermione was so very fatigued that she hadn't the energy to bite back. She resigned herself to the winding stairs. Following Draco to the door of Dumbledore's office, she childishly pulled a face at the back of his head.

"Please... your face is bad enough as it is." He mysteriously knew what she had done without turning to look at her.

She shrugged to herself and presumed that Draco was used to people pulling faces at him, not all together bothered about his remark concerning her face. In Malfoy's opinion, everyone except for him was ugly. He knocked on the heavy wooden door and entered. Hermione was soothed by the fact that Dumbledore was the only member of staff that could be seen - that was, in exception of the portraits that were hanging upon the circular wall.

"Ah, Mr Malfoy, you have retrieved Miss Granger. Come in, come in." Dumbledore smiled, motioning for them to sit at two armchairs that were positioned opposite his desk. The light that was emanating from a nearby candle illuminated his disconcertingly blue eyes.

Why was it that Dumbledore seemed to have aged fifty years over the past two months or so? Hermione had always thought of Dumbledore as timeless. Now he bore symptoms of such great fragility that she wasn't so sure. The lines etched upon the old man's companionable face had become deeper, and his brow was almost continually furrowed in the process of deep thought. _Malfoy must be pleased_, she thought. She wanted to hug the old man, to comfort him, to alleviate his worries. But she didn't, of course. Stumbling into an armchair, she was almost entirely asleep. Tired and hungry, all of her energy was sapped; she needed to eat.

Almost as though he had read her mind, Dumbledore waved his wand, making three bowls of steaming tomato soup appear along with a loaf of crusty bread.

"As long as we're all here, I might as well share a late supper with you," he said. Though he sounded tired, his eyes were twinkling. "Now. Miss Granger, you haven't graced us with your person for days! Where have you been? And please, help yourself."

Holding his bowl in his lap, Draco watched Hermione lean across the desk. Her ringlets of brow hair veiled her face from view. Even when performing the simplest of tasks, her hands seemed deftly graceful.

"Thank you, Professor." Hermione was greatly appreciative. She noted, rather enviously, that Draco had already begun to eat, as though he was accustomed to such suppers. "I haven't been anywhere. At least not out of the common room."

"Yes you have – you spent eleven hours in the library yesterday," Draco interrupted testily. "Also," he added, "I hate to say it, but you _do_ spend an awful long time in that common room of yours."

Hermione turned to him, "Would you just shut up?" Of all the people in the world, why was it him that she was stuck with? It could have been anyone else, anyone at all. But no, she got Malfoy. Now she knew how Harry felt about the holidays.

"Maybe if you had a reason to ask me to do so," he replied in a prosaic tone.

"Oh, I forgot. Slytherins have no sense of reason, especially when speaking to headmasters," she snapped.

Sat in his armchair, Dumbledore twiddled his thumbs as though watching them argue was some sort of enjoyable pastime, "Do continue, we have six weeks, after all."

Hermione was so flustered that she slopped soup down her front. "Oh! I'm sorry, professor! I'll clean this up." She began to search for her wand, intensely flushed.

"Never mind, I'll be able to clear it up easily." Dumbledore smiled at her good-heartedly. He waved his own wand and the soup that had spilled was gone, "Now. Where were we?"

Still glowing fiercely, Hermione cleared her throat, "I said that I hadn't been anywhere."

Draco laughed and tried to conceal his smiles with his soupspoon, facing the cluttered desk. His white-blond hair falling into his face, Hermione realised that this was the first time that she had seen his hair in its natural, un-gelled state. Its colour now seemed oddly angelic for a person with such a devilish personality.

"I called you both into my office for a purpose, I assure you."

"And that purpose was...?" Now recovered from his laughing fit, Draco attempted to keep a straight face. He impatiently pushed his hair back. Hermione watched his hand carefully, blinked, and then turned to Dumbledore.

"Headmaster, are you actually willing to put up with this? Because I, for one..." Hermione looked at Malfoy sceptically.

Dumbledore chuckled. "Don't worry. I'm quite used to - and therefore quite unfazed by - Mr Malfoy's behaviour. Answering his most engaging question, the _first_ objective of the meeting was to discuss the matter of your parent's house. It needs to be cleared... Your own belongings and those of sentimental value must be brought to Hogwarts before your aunt and uncle move in."

Knowing that Hermione was most capable of dealing with her parent's death when spoken to formally, Dumbledore tried to seem distant. There was a short pause as he left Hermione to accept what he had just told her.

"Wha - What?" she stammered, taken aback. "They want to move in, so... soon?"

"I'm afraid so. I attempted to dissuade the ministry from letting the house be given away so soon, but Muggle law wouldn't co-operate. It stated clearly on your parent's wills that they would inherit the house, and that their money would be given to you, along with anything else that you would want from their property."

Happily observing the scene, Draco made himself more comfortable. It had become obvious to him that he was not any part of the current conversation. Dumbledore had the most wonderful view of the grounds... pity that it was pitch black outside.

"When will I have to go?" Hermione looked down, chewing her bottom lip. She had neglected to even _consider_ what would happen to all of her parent's books, letters, family videos and their photographs. When she imagined them collecting dust in her father's uninhabited study; she couldn't bear the thought. And yet she couldn't bear the thought of returning to it all without her parents.

"Don't worry," Dumbledore replied gently. "You won't be asked to go alone. One of the teaching staff will go with you. As for when, you have the rest of the holidays to sort things out."

Hermione silently breathed a sigh of relief: to her, the end of the holidays seemed centuries away.

"I'm sorry, headmaster, but I really don't see how all of this is relevant to me." Draco tore his bread into two equal pieces, planning to dip them into his soup.

"I need to consult you about a matter that has arisen."

Hermione was all set to leave. Gathering numerous slices of crusty bread, she rose from her chair.

"No, you stay, Hermione," said Dumbledore firmly.

"Uh, what?" Draco paused in the middle of a parting wave.

Hermione was mystified. She shrugged, once again relaxing into her abundantly cushioned chair, "Fine. But... why?"

"Mr Malfoy is an official member of the Order. Many people are united in the conflict against Voldemort." When the twinkle was absent from his eyes, Dumbledore radiated supremacy. "A conference held earlier today concluded with an agreement - the Order is unanimous in hoping that you will join the conflict."

All amusement dissipated, Draco was furious, "Unanimous? _Unanimous_? Excuse me for being rude, but _hello_? What happened to this consulting trash?"

Hermione stared at Draco. "_You're _in the Order? What for, to look pretty? And you're asking me?"

"I don't _look_ pretty, I _am_ pretty. I'll give you unanimous... Wait a second - you think I'm pretty?"

The headmaster sighed, closing his eyes, "Miss Granger, let's take this from your first question. Feel free to quiz both of us. Would you care to ask Mr Malfoy if he'll tell you how he came about to be in the Order?"

Hermione turned to the despairing Draco, eyeing his composure critically, "Well?"

Draco raised his head, looking at Dumbledore for guidance. When he received no affirmative nod, he sat back into his chair. Although he tried to behave in a nonchalant manner, he couldn't help recalling that Gryffindors surrounded him. And at that, intelligent Gryffindors; one of whom had despised him for six years. Why should he have to blurt all of his innermost feelings to her?

"No," he said bluntly, avoiding her eyes. He crossed his legs upon the chair and reminded Hermione fleetingly of a meditating Buddhist.

Nonplussed, she raised her eyebrows at him.

"No," he repeated. "If I wish to withhold certain information about my background, I can. It's in the job description."

"Are you going to tell me anything?" she sighed, peeling the crust of her bread absent-mindedly. All the while, she held his eyes with her own. His eyes... they were darker in the firelight. Along with something that Hermione couldn't quite distinguish, they held a roguish glint, as though somewhere behind all of that deliriously phenomenal grey, there was a fine mind that saw the situation as amusing. They were so compelling that Hermione had to tear her brown ones away from his.

Leaning forward, Draco beckoned for Hermione. He drew his chair closer to hers and whispered into her ear, "No. But have we reached the point where you ask about _your_ supposed position yet?" The smirk that he wore expressed his opinion plainly; "_I know something that you don't, _and_ they asked me to be in the Order before they asked you."_

Hermione, for the second time that evening, blushed. An obvious reason for this was the fact that he had been messing around with her. She sat back. Yes, that had to be right. She was just annoyed... Ignoring the shiver that seemed to flow like warm water across her skin, she asked, "What would be required of me if I _were_ to join the Order?"

"Let me explain. Miss Granger, did you know that in September, you will officially be the most intellectual student in Hogwarts? Child, your mind holds greater power than most full-grown witches and wizards that I know."

"Just how large is Granger's brain? I mean, if her hair actually wasn't her hair, and just head, then she's got an abnormally large one, therefore more brain capacity." Hearing the way that the headmaster praised Hermione was making Draco rather envious. "Do you think that this is fair? Seriously, if you're going to judge people's IQ levels, then you've _got_ to make it fair."

Hermione raised one eyebrow at Draco, "What on Earth have you been eating?" Turning to the headmaster, she protested, "He's most distracting. But please, do continue."

"As I was saying, the Order needs you. If you acquiesce to the request, you will become a theorist for the Order. Goodness knows you have plenty of common sense, Hermione." It was amazing that such a frail man could possess so much authority. Straight-backed and sincere, Dumbledore was the epitome of candour. He positively _made_ Hermione to believe that she could be of some use to him. "You must realise what effect this would have upon you. It would endanger your life."

"I'll do it," she said shortly.

"To document that you know of the dangers that might befall you, and that you know of the fact that you must remain silent in reference to your position in the Order, would you please sign the list of members? Draco signed his name some time ago. He assists Professor Snape in the dungeons." Dumbledore waited for her to give a nod of agreement then passed to her what seemed to be a fraying piece of cloth. When Hermione touched it, it roared loudly:

"FOE! FOE! FOE..."

She dropped it like a hot potato.

"Security device!" Dumbledore explained, shouting to be heard over the raucous that was emitting from the cloth, "Stops the uninvited from reading the list; you've got to cuddle it!"

Hermione approached the cloth, picked it up and held it to her chest. All became silent.

"Hagrid's idea..." Dumbledore clarified.

"How did I guess...?" Draco said darkly.

She pulled it away to view all of the names, to familiarise herself with the Order. At a glance, she could see the cramped italic letters of Snape's signature, Hagrid's untidy scrawl, and unsurprisingly, a single red-gold line next to where Sirius had originally signed his name. It suddenly occurred to Hermione how very fatal a mere signature could be - by signing this document, she could be signing her life away. At the very bottom was Malfoy's large, exaggerated print. It took up two whole lines, prominent because of its green ink, which was stood against a myriad of black. She took to her seat indecisively, selected a quill from Dumbledore's desk and signed. The ink seeped through the cloth, intertwining with the other names. It then disappeared.

"So," she said, placing the quill upon the desk. Not entirely comfortable about being scrutinised so closely by Malfoy, she wanted to initiate conversation: "What do you do, when you assist Professor Snape in the dungeons?" She made a teapot appear with her wand along with some floral-patterned teacups. She poured each of them some tea and Dumbledore thanked her graciously.

Draco looked quite smug; "We've been working on a relatively new idea, called the _Avitus Investigatio_ composite. That translates from Latin literally as 'Ancestral Investigation'. It's a potion that could be utilised to transport a person back to where their ancestors were at a certain date." He sounded as though he was quoting from a textbook.

Astounded, Hermione widened her eyes, "That sounds a little..."

"Impossible?" Dumbledore finished for her. "That's what I told Severus, but he seems to believe that there may actually be a way in which to do so. Strange, isn't it, the way a potion master's mind works? Not that I can criticise his way of thinking, of course. He has always been able to prove his theories correct - to the frustration of Ludo Bagman."

Consuming her tea with the speed of one obliged to drink Skele-Gro, Hermione contemplated upon Snape's ambition to concoct a potion that allowed time travel. She had never before thought of him as an inventor, but now that she thought about it... "If you were to make such a potion, you would have to make it in such a way that the ancestor could not see the drinker. That's a major fault of the Time-Turner."

"Well, duh -" Malfoy drawled. But Hermione didn't seem to be listening.

"And if you weren't able to get out of the era for some reason or other, you'd need a supervising other, or an alternative magical device or potion. Also, you'd need some sort of extra screening mechanism... like an invisibility cloak. If ever the potion lost effect, _then_ you'd be doomed."

Dumbledore was pensive. "You know, I don't think that Severus has thought about that one... you'll have to tell him about it. Go with Mr Malfoy tomorrow to the dungeons. A defective potion is the last thing that the Order needs."

Muttering darkly under his breath, Draco poured himself a second cup of tea, more or less bludgeoning the pot back down against the desk. Great. _Just_ the sort of company that he required: Granger and her intolerable intelligence, all rolled into one vast demonic being. Oh how he _adored_ it all; Snape _and _Hermione, together? He'd die of boredom.

"Mr Malfoy, you seem to be acting a little brisk. Would you prefer that Miss Granger remained in her room all day tomorrow? You are not really so obstinate..." Dumbledore studied Draco carefully.

"Oh no, headmaster," Malfoy replied scathingly.

Dumbledore surveyed them both. Moving from his seat, he stood and walked to where Fawkes was balancing upon his perch. He turned and began to stroke the phoenix. When he spoke it was in a grave tone of voice; "I am not oblivious as to your perceptible grudge against one another, but then again, neither would a blind man be. You are both unaware of how obvious your undercurrent of dislike is. An element of animosity has always existed when Gryffindors and Slytherins have associated. I am not attempting to alter what has been moral code for centuries - but for my own, the other professors and your own sakes, please try to get along. At the least for these six weeks... it isn't too much to ask."

Startled, Hermione looked away, "I'll try, professor." She had known that Dumbledore was one to encourage inter-house bonding, but she had grown so used to everyone feeling annoyed when Malfoy was around, that she no longer truly acknowledged that he was a Slytherin. He was just the unpleasant person that had called her, "Mudblood." She remembered their very first encounter on the Hogwarts Express, and she almost laughed aloud. Goodness, he had changed. During his first few years at Hogwarts, Malfoy had always been rather short in height when compared to the average student - but now he was so tall... comparing her vision of him on the train with the person sitting next to her was mind-blowing. She suddenly felt rather petite... as though she was back in her first year again - and all because he had shot up whilst she had stopped growing.

Draco's thoughts ran along the same lines as Hermione's. Yes, she was shorter than he was - she probably wouldn't have been able to reach his chin, but she was so much more adult. Sophisticated, elegant and congenial. More than he could have said about her six years, or indeed even one year ago. More than he ever would have even confessed to himself. How hadn't he noticed the change that had taken place in her figure? He tried to avoid the thought that was advancing from somewhere within him as he saw her eyes meet his own. Exhaling slowly to try and stop his head from spinning, he shook his head. "Headmaster, you're wrong; it's too much to ask."

"It is, Mr Malfoy? I recommend that you give my proposal at the least a fair chance before you decide to cast it away."

"Let's try it, then." Draco grinned. Hermione was acutely aware that Malfoy had no plans whatsoever to put Dumbledore's guidance into practise, but she pursed her lips and remained mute.

A few days ago, Hermione never would have imagined that she would be spending the holidays undertaking such an epic task. Sadly, it blew away any myth such as Lee Jordans' chances – the teachers did not squander their spare time relaxing in Disneyworld. Lee had sworn that he'd seen Madame Hooch cruising upon the flying Dumbo ride, apparently looking 'dead bored.'

"We have a new room for you Hermione, by the way – you might want to move in tonight. On the seventh floor... Past the painting of Ryan the Wretched."


	2. Chapter Two

Author notes: Thanks for the reviews! It means a lot to me. When I read through them I grin insanely at the computer screen.

I uploaded chapter one of this fic about a year ago now... Hides face guiltily. But I'm back and more enthusiastic than ever, so... Also, I've edited my first chapter and swapped a few things round – when I looked back I saw loads of grammatical errors and bad sentence construction. Hey, I was only thirteen!

TWO

The Missing Portrait

The corridors were dark at this time of night. Only the flaming torches gave off light, strategically placed every few metres. Each stride that Hermione took sounded like a riotous commotion to her ears. Although she had permission to be out of bed, she instinctively continued to be vigilant for any sign of Mrs Norris. Upon reaching her new quarters, she breathed an involuntary sigh of relief, closing the door quietly.

Her new room was spacious. It was certainly a unique chamber – crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, winking at her from above. A round coffee table surrounded by chintz armchairs proved to be the room's main focal point – no doubt these were donated by the philanthropic Trelawney – clearly, the table could be moved to reveal a set of floorboards fit for dancing on. In the corner of her room stood her faithful four-poster. The miniature library that was her book collection seemed to be depleting an entire corner of her comfortable room... she would have to buy some bookshelves. Slumping blithely into a chair, Hermione opened her book.

As she flicked to the first page, she felt a sense of dread. A diary:

"_Reader, we are facing tribulations at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, or – as our current headmaster would say – we are "broadening our minds by means of ordeal." If that is the case, then why is it that we Gryffindors find ourselves retreating into Hogsmeade to avoid school so often? Alicia swore that even Draco Malfoy, a Slytherin –"_

A jolt made her impulsively stand up – she threw the book across the floor as though a particularly nasty-looking spider had been nestled in its pages. Muffling her voice with her shaking hand, her heart was beating so rapidly that she was convinced that it was going to burst. Had she just seen what she thought she had seen? Taking a few deep breaths, she attempted to calm herself. She left the book where she'd thrown it: what if it was hexed? Mr Weasley would have told her to, after all. Yes, that was the most rational thing to do.

At daybreak, it took Draco a length of time to stir. For a while, he simply grumbled as rays of sunlight streamed through his common room window, burying himself under his quilt. It was so much warmer here, in front of the fire, than in his common room. He was just about to go back to sleep for a while when somebody pulled his quilt away.

Shivering, he sat up, eyes wide in an instant.

"Granger, what in the fiery, red chasms of hell are you doing in my common room?" He had been aiming to shout, but his voice had presented itself in a gravelly whisper.

"Why, you're looking tousled today."

"That's the most ridiculous comment I've ever heard, you know, coming from a girl who never seems to brush her hair."

Hermione more felt than saw the anxiety that Malfoy was experiencing from being in public with an untidy composure. To her, he looked rather endearing – he needn't have worried. "You're not much of a morning person, are you?"

Yawning, he stood up. "Not really. And I'm seriously violating rule number four-hundred-and-sixty-five of the Malfoy Code: A Malfoy must, whilst in the public eye, appear utterly refined in attire. I'm presuming that wearing my pyjamas in front of a Mudblood's breaching it a little."

All sympathy dissipated, Hermione thrust her book into his chest. "You're impossible. We need –"

"What the heck is this?" Draco interrupted sullenly.

"We need to get it to Snape – it's a book with your name in it."

Raising an almost invisible blond eyebrow at her, Draco began to open the red cover.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," she reproved.

"And why's that?"

"Because it may be hexed."

Having spent one of the most tedious periods of his life in St. Mungo's due – quite insufferably – to a malicious lantern, existing solely to burn him to cinders, he dropped the book instantaneously. "I think I'd better get dressed."

"I think you'd better."

Sauntering off, Draco's perfectly moulded nose was high in the air. Ten minutes later Hermione was still waiting for him. He had gone to breakfast.

When Hermione finally entered the Great Hall, she was slightly out of breath. She had attempted to show Snape the book... Disconcertingly, he had almost thrown something that looked horribly like a cauldron of undiluted bubotuber pus over her head. As a result of this she had ran from the temporarily smelly, humid dungeons to breakfast. She could always try again, later... even though Snape had looked as though he could have bitten her to death then and there. She wondered whether it _would_ make any difference if Malfoy did come with her.

Hermione put on her most flattering Breakfast Smile for him.

The people sitting around the table greeted her, Dumbledore making a chair appear from thin air.

"Did you sleep well last night? It's nice to have you down here with us, for a change." Flitwick asked her as she sat down.

"Perfectly well," Hermione lied.

"I trust that your new quarters are acceptable?" McGonagall asked anxiously.

"My room is wonderful! I especially love my flowers and plants, Muggle and Wizarding, with healing herbs –"

"Mine!" Madame Pomfrey interrupted proudly, obviously pleased with Hermione's reaction.

"Yes, and the books. The books are wonderful. I'm going to save up for some shelves."

"All sorted," McGonagall said promptly, "they're arriving today from the library."

"Thank you so much..." Hermione said, happily. "I can't tell you how much –"

Swooping low over the table, the postal owls dropped a solitary letter and a package onto her toast.

"A letter!" squeaked Flitwick, almost falling backwards out of his chair. "But you must share it with us, Miss Granger! The owls haven't been in for weeks..."

McGonagall looked at him from underneath her spectacles. "Now, really. There is no need to become exited over two pieces of parchment and a box. I suppose that Hermione is to be allowed her privacy?"

"Why – yes, yes, of course." Flitwick collected himself, buttering a croissant, but Hermione could see him watching her out of the corner of his eye. She slit open the letter with caution.

It was from Ron:

_Wotcher, Hermione! (Ginny forced me to write that)._

_I heard on the train back home that Malfoy's still at Hogwarts, too. He really is a prat, _

_isn't he? Always turning up where he's not wanted. Don't let him get you down! If he _

_does, write me a letter. If he doesn't, write me a letter. In fact, just write me one._

_Crabbe and Goyle have allegedly disappeared from the face of the Earth (thank God). _

_Apparently they've left for a nudist's beach in Spain. I feel sorry for the Spanish. So _

_does Ginny._

_See you soon,_

_Ron (and Ginny)._

Seeing Ron's untidy scrawl made Hermione feel strangely nostalgic for the burrow. She pocketed the letter, making a mental note to write back later on.

"Well?" Flitwick enquired excitedly. "What did it say?"

"Nothing much," she answered, quite sincerely. "It was from Ron." Malfoy met her eye.

"Is Mr Weasley enjoying his holiday?" Dumbledore asked.

"Yes, he is," she said, watching Draco busying himself with a bowl of porridge.

"I can imagine that Hagrid is," sighed Madame Hooch, darkly. "He's away in Romania, helping Charlie protect the dragons from Voldemort."

"He did mention something about that to me, a few weeks back. I thought he was joking," commented Professor Sprout.

Polishing off the remainder of her toast, Hermione waited impatiently for Draco to stop talking to Madame Hooch.

"Miss Granger." A cold voice pierced her from behind.

It was Snape.

Turning slowly, she waited for a bomb to fall, for the ceiling to cave in, or to be covered in bubotuber pus. The whole table had fallen silent. She swallowed.

"Professor, I didn't – didn't mean to get in your way, earlier, sir!" Hermione stammered.

Snape's mouth twitched at the corner, as though he was little amused.

"Are you ready for us, professor?" Draco asked, having entirely abandoned his breakfast. To Hermione's surprise, his face was straight – she would have laughed at his unusual sobriety if it were not Snape's tendency to threaten her with undiluted bubotuber pus.

Watching Hermione's stocking-clad legs swing back and forth as she sat on a desk, Draco attempted with all his might to keep his eyes on her face. Disconcertingly, his eyes were drawn down as though magnetised. She moved with a lithesome elegance that made him horribly conscious of his own actions. Perhaps he ought not to be thinking such a thing, but there was no doubt about it – Hermione's legs were, well, sexy.

"Watch it; you're burning the bloody potion!" Draco moaned at Mrs Sebold for the nth time that afternoon. Even when you _weren't _in the company of an idiot-hag, the dungeons were a bleak sort of place.

Mrs Sebold confidently stirred the frothing broth, looming over the table, distinctly reminding Hermione of Snape. "My Malfoy, I have been a potions mistress for almost eleven decades. If you think that you could do any better, come and do it yourself."

Hermione was intrigued. "Eleven decades? That's a pretty impressive CV."

"She's lying." Malfoy sneered, gazing at his complexion in a somewhat antiquated mirror.

"Careful," Mrs Sebold cackled. "Your face will stick like that!"

"Would somebody shut her up?" Vociferously whispering and standing directly behind Hermione, he inhaled the scent of her hair. "Hazelnut," he muttered.

"Hazelnut?" Hermione swivelled round to ask him, forcing him to jump backwards. Surprised at him sudden jerk, she reached out and touched his arm fleetingly to calm him.

So close. Those legs were so close. He found himself wanting to reach out, wanting to touch her again. For a second, he had felt her warm breath graze his cheek. Still feeling reverberations travelling through his arm where she had briefly made contact with it, Draco sought desperately for something to say.

"Snape's not going to like –"

"What have you done, girl? Those shelves were organised perfectly well!" Upon entering the room, Snape eyed Hermione haughtily.

She sniffed noisily, but allowed Snape to cross the room to adjust the livers.

"So, wait a second. Snape's not actually making this stuff – he just gets someone else to do the hard work?"

"I research the ingredients, Miss Granger," Snape hissed through his teeth.

Shrinking back from Snape, Hermione sat down once more.

"The substance that you would least like to drink is there in that bowl." Draco questioned. "That's what will appear in that bowl. For Dumbledore, it's Pensieve water. For me, it's _avitus investigatio_, a legendary potion that makes you go back in time to your family's younger lives."

In unadulterated scepticism, Hermione stared out at Draco. This boy was not the Draco she knew. He could not be Draco for several reasons. For a start, Draco Malfoy would never do something for a good cause unless he would benefit from what he was doing.

"Draco Malfoy is one of the few people in the world that could help me with this potion. He's going to travel back to the time of his

"What is it for you?" Hermione asked Snape directly.

"Veritaserum."

"Why's Snape's potion Veritaserum, Malfoy? Do you know?"

"You don't even know half of what Snape's been through," Draco said, fiercely. "I respect him, Granger."

As she jumped into the pool-like tub, Hermione's water gave an almighty splash. She surfaced for air, pulling her hair away from the front of her face, only to find that bubbles were floating about the room in their thousands. Merlin. She had only wanted to try the tap out.

Most people during their seven years at Hogwarts visited the prefect's bathroom: some by means of sharing, some just given the password by a largely accommodating friend. Last term alone there had been more than just a few unauthorised parties. Hermione, feeling sorry for Ginny, had shared the password – Ginny hadn't been made a prefect in her fifth year. Hermione had been sorry for it later when Ginny had pasted the password onto the Gryffindor's common room notice board. It was quite disturbing to imagine that say... Dean Thomas had once been standing on the same floor as you, stark naked.

The only girl in a line of boys, the baby of the family and now the only sibling not to have become a prefect. Well, there was always Fred and George, but nobody was ever going to condemn the Weasley twins for being 'prefect material.' And although Ginny claimed that her fondness of Harry was now at equilibrium, Hermione knew otherwise. She had heard the way Ginny's voice altered when she spoke to him. The way that she held herself differently in his presence. Seeming not to notice how attracted she was to him, Harry had yet to admit that he was attracted to her. Ever since he had dealt with his crush on Cho he could hardly even hold a conversation with Ginny without blushing. If she happened to touch him, even lightly, he ceased to speak at all. Hermione wished that they would come to terms with the fact that neither of them wanted to be just friends.

After swimming a few lengths of the pool, washing herself and her hair, Hermione clambered out of the bath and draped a towel around herself. When she was fully dressed, , she studied her reflection in the tall mirror. Surely she wasn't _that_ terrible to look at. She might have had hair that could save her from the apocalypse, but he had practically been drooling over it when it had been straight at the Yule Ball. Yes, she was so small that she could fit into the same jumpers that she wore five years ago, but it wasn't as though she was completely out of proportion. Why did she care, anyway?


End file.
